April 22, 1848, 8 a.m.
A clipper loaded with goods and passengers set off from Calais, crossing the Rashman Strait, breaking through the white fog dispersed on the sea surface, and arrived near the waters of the London Dock at dawn.
Dock lookout tower.
The signalman responsible for reporting the docking of ships simultaneously sent a docking permission signal to the incoming ships and reported to the personnel below the lookout tower that a ship was arriving. The London Dock, silent for a night, was now welcoming its first business of the day.
"You pigs, you trash! If you don't want to be fired imdiately, hurry up and move!"
On the riverside dock, workers dressed in shabby, dust-stained clothes gathered under the harsh cursing of the rough dock manager. They had just finished moving and sorting goods, and without a mont's rest for their weary bodies, they boarded a small boat prepared by the dock.
Though their faces were filled with numbness, their bodies moved involuntarily.
Jobs in the 19th century were hard to co by, especially during special tis like this. A slight mistake could lead to unreasonable layoffs.
For a dockworker, layoffs ant a slow death; ever since the economic crisis, they had seen many corpses floating downstream from the Thas River.
A roommate who was joking and laughing together the day before might beco a part of the wandering army the next day due to unemploynt and inability to pay the rent.
Not just them, even those gentlen usually clad in fine clothing faced the risk of unemploynt, or even death, at any mont.
These days, they had seen countless bodies floating on the Thas, dressed in black jackets, heads facing the water, backs facing the sky.
They say these people were those who liked to take chances in their daily lives.
Never getting laid off beca the purest wish in every dockworker's heart.
...
Under the guidance of the lookout, small boats docked on both sides of the London Dock slowly entered narrow diversion channels. Under the watchful eyes of workers waiting to unload, the big ship smoothly entered the port. The anchor was slowly let down, the bow sprit was disconnected from its stays, and the main and secondary sails were successively furled. The ship, assisted by its residual montum, continued to sail a short distance until the massive anchor fully subrged underwater.
Several small boats gradually approached the cargo sail ship, wooden gangplanks dropped from the sail ship onto the small boats.
Passengers on the deck, under the sailors' guidance, slid down the gangplank onto the small boats and then reached the shore by the small boats.
Passengers left the ship in order and boarded the small boats until the last young man.
At this mont, he was smiling, shaking hands in turn with the surrounding sailors.
Held by the young man, the sailors were overwheld with excitent, repeatedly chanting words like "Long live the Emperor," "Long live the Empire."
"Cough... cough..."
A sharp cough ca from behind the sailors, and almost all of them knew the owner of the voice was the captain of this ship. This was imdiately followed by the coarse voice of the first mate: "How much longer are you going to surround the guest? Have you all forgotten your duties? Hurry up and get back to work!"
The sailors, who had originally surrounded the young man, dispersed after hearing Da Fu's coarse voice, many of them wearing expressions of regret on their faces.
The captain and the first mate approached the young man, their expressions respectful, and spoke: "We sincerely apologize for what just happened, Your Highness the Prince!"
The young man, whom the captain called the Prince, looked only about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, tall and slender, with flowing golden hair swaying in the sea breeze. His angular face with black pupils bore a striking resemblance to that person.
"Sir!" the young man reached out with a smile, sincerely saying: "The Empire has long ceased to exist for many years, and I am no longer a prince! I prefer you to call Napoleon Jero Bonaparte!"
"Your Highness the Prince..." The captain, like a child seeing a new toy, grasped Little Jero's hand exclaid: "Oh no! Forgive my titles, Jero, my father was originally a part of the Imperial Guard, and I grew up hearing stories about the Emperor..."
The captain told Little Jero about how his father beca a mber of the Emperor's army, experienced the battle of Leipzig with the Emperor, and was forced to retire after his right foot injury during that great battle...
"When I learned you were on the ship... I truly didn't know how to face you... My father often taught ..." The captain talked incessantly about their family's history of fighting for the Emperor as if a faucet of a flood had been opened.
Jero quietly listened to the captain's words, nodding occasionally.
The captain's ceaseless talking lasted nearly half an hour until the first mate standing beside him gently nudged his body with an elbow.
Realizing this, the captain quickly apologized to Jero.
Jero nodded and said: "Thank you for everything you've done for the Empire; the Bonaparte Clan will not forget its supporters!"
Having said this, Jero took out the pocket watch from his jacket pocket. It was already a quarter past nine.
There was less than two hours left before eting ti.
"I'm sorry! Please allow to take my leave; I am eting my cousin! Missing an appointnt is not gentlemanly!" Jero said with a hint of apology in his tone.
"No... no... it was my presumptuousness!" The captain also apologized.
Under the watchful eyes of the captain, the first mate, and the entire crew, Jero Bonaparte left the sail ship to board a small boat heading for the London Dock.
Sitting at the stern of the boat, Little Jero looked at the countless small boats coming and going on both sides of the channel, his eyes revealing a trace of confusion.
It had been nearly four months since he traveled throughti to this mont, yet there remained an almost imperceptible barrier between him and this world.
Everything before his eyes seed so illusory, yet they existed in true reality.
The waters of the Thas were many tis dirtier than those of the 21st century, and the air carried an inexplicable pungent odor.
He should have brought those advocates of fresh air here to see the authentic Anglo-Saxon fresh air of the 19th century.
Little Jero silently complained.
The small boat continued forward, the pungent odor growing stronger.
Sitting on the small boat and looking far into the distance, one could see rows of towering "chimneys" emitting white smoke.
This smoke was sulfur dioxide from coal combustion. If it were the 21st century, such emissions would only attract the attention of environntalists, and rectification and shutdown would be imminent.
In the 19th century, however, this was a symbol of an empire's strength.
The beast nad industry was opening its fierce fangs, attempting to devour the entire world.
Note: 1. Napoleon Jero Bonaparte (September 9, 1822 — March 17, 1891), son of Jero Bonaparte, nephew of Napoleon.
Reviews
All reviews (0)